Connecting The Dots
by SpunSilk
Summary: Kolchak: The Night Stalker story. Things that don't make sense often come up on Kolchak's beat, but this latest homicide really takes the cake. "In my peripheral vision, something joined the bees in the air. Dots. Lines of dots in strings. Odd. Faded, they were, subtle... "
1. Part 1 The Bite

Carl isn't mine, but I'm borrowing him for this story. Chapter one is from Mark Dawidziak's _Interview with a Vampire? _Great story. Do not miss that one. (Kolchak: The Night Stalker Chronicles put out by Moonstone, ISBN 1-933076-04-6)

**CONNECTING THE DOTS**

**By SpunSilk**

**Part One**

* * *

Those with the greatest awareness have the greatest nightmares.

Mahatma Gandhi

* * *

_If I lived through this, I promised myself, I was coming back with a hammer and take out the clock, too. The ticking had almost driven me batty in my tense state. I clutched the hand-made stake with the fervor of a man drowning. No place to hide. I stood in the living room in the Collinsport "Old House" knowing full well what was coming for me. Doors and windows were locked, and I was stuck like a pig in a poke. A prisoner–– but I didn't have to be a passive prisoner. I had my level head, I had my stake – honed to a lethal point after hours of whittling._

_I pressed myself against the wall next to the bookshelf and concentrated on slow, even breaths even as I heard the front door unlock and creak wide. Sure. Of course. Of course his door would creak. I almost smiled. Night air whipped through the antique room, then stopped dead again as the door closed, tight as a tomb._

_He was here._

_I had no cross. I had no mallet. But I had my stake behind my back and the will and the strength to drive it home. One shot. Cool head. Breathe... _

_He stepped calmly around the corner and stopped when he saw me. He wasn't large, but I knew that hardly mattered. His smile was slow and cold. He removed his cloak silently and hung it together with the silver-headed walking stick on the hat tree, unhurried. I knew he could hear my heart beating frantically. Cool head. Focus. You have it in you, Carl. You have no option but to succeed..._

"_Mr. Kolchak, a pleasure to finally meet you." His fangs peaked out when he smiled. "I trust you have been kept comfortable through the day?"_

_I did not reply. I knew what he was, and he knew I knew. For that, he had to kill me. And for that I had to kill him. Cool head. All in the timing..._

_His eyes narrowed and he approached me like a predator, cat-like in his movement, confident. My mutinous heart beat wildly even as I called for calm. I moved cautiously out past the polished book table; clear path now. Build momentum. I raised the stake over my shoulder. Go!_

_Before I got two strides in, strong arms wrestled my arms behind my back and something kicked my feet out from under me. I went down onto the floor with a flash of a feeling that this happened every time, just this way. My face landed hard on knotted wool. My jailer, Loomis, had appeared out of nowhere. He pulled me up as far as my knees, squeezing my elbows together painfully, but my stake never left my fist._

"_That's enough, mister" he hissed through clenched teeth. He knelt down on my calves with one knee and I was suddenly as helpless as a trussed chicken._

_Damn._

_tick-tick-tick._

_Collins approached slowly, his fangs showing only as subtile indentations in his lower lip. His face showed long years of emotion, plus regret for what he had to do now, but he approached me none the less. His purpose was clear, his manner unhurried. It was... inevitable..._

_My mind whirled. No. No. This was not what I had signed up for. Natural death was one thing, I figured I could handle that. But death by vampire was quite another. I grasped for straws._

"_I have a request!" I blurted in blind panic. "Wait! A request! As a guest in your house, you owe me one request, sir!"_

"_What could he owe you? You just tried to take him down, you oaf." Loomis sneered._

"_Surely you're big enough to grant a dying man one request!" I yelled._

"_I am. Speak your request." Collins spoke calmly. _

_I was taken aback. Silence hung between us for a number of beats as I tried to get the words to come out. I was scared of what was about to happen, but even more terrified of what would happen after that. I took two deep breaths. The air seemed thicker than normal. He had to listen. He had to._

"_Afterwards..." I pulled in thick air again, breathless with the effort of speaking these words. "Afterwards...I request that you...stake me. I have no desire to become... one of your putrid kind." I spat that last bit. "You can use this one here. I made it." _

_Yeah, I know. You could have cut the irony with a knife._

"_Ah." he said, and then said nothing more._

_I stared at the floor, specifically choosing not to look at him. "If you aren't allowed to do it for some reason, tell Loomis to. I need to know it will be done! Grant me this one thing and... I won't fight you."_

"_He doesn't need your co-operation."_

"_Willie, that's enough. Calm yourself, Mr. Kolchak. I agree to your request."_

"_Your word!" I looked him hard in the eye then and raised up, in spite of the sharp leg across my calves. "I want your word, sir! With Loomis as witness!"_

"_You have it, sir. You will not walk as the undead."_

_He had given his word. I collapsed back against Loomis' restraint, almost drunk with relief. It was over, then. The fight was over. I was almost okay with it. How much terror can one poor body handle, anyway?_

"_Alright." I breathed. "Alright." My death-grip on the stake loosened and it clattered to the wooden floor. The clock continued its infernal ticking, but now I panted for each second it marked. I steeled myself for the final task: raising my chin. It had never felt heavier, like all of Niagara Falls were rushing down on it to keep it from raising. I strained, and only managed an inch. Breathe. Work. This was always the hardest part. Two inches; almost there. The scene took on a surreal feeling, like I were watching it from some where else. Raise. Expose... Well done, Carl, now just...hold it there..._

_I closed my eyes tight. _

"_Make it fast." I said simply. _

_I heard him approach and felt cool breath nearby. A cold hand cradled the back of my neck, and he leaned close and inhaled deeply. I whimpered, but held the pose. Just force your way through this part, I told myself. Relief is close now..._

_For as long as it was in coming, the bite itself was incredibly swift. The cradling hand became a vice of amazing strength. I yelled and writhed involuntarily, but Loomis held me tight. I was almost grateful for his restraint –it removed me from the process– as I had to listen to the sounds of greedy swallows so close to my ear. My heart, in full treason, frantically pumped more blood toward the bite. It burned like Hades under his mouth and sharp pain reported from all around my body as arteries started to collapse––_

I sat up with a cry, drenched in sweat, eyes wide in the light of my lamp. Familiar drab walls stood around me. I grabbed for my neck in panic. It was whole. My frazzled mind cleared enough for me to groan "Oh. That one." while groping for the crucifix I keep under my pillow, just to hold it. I wrapped my arms around my chest and fell over onto the bed in the fetal position, laying there shivering until my heart rate finally slowed to normal and the only pounding was in my head.


	2. Part 2 The Body

**Connecting the Dots**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part Two**

* * *

The general function of dreams is to try to restore our psychological balance  
by producing dream material that re-establishes, in a subtle way, the total  
psychic equilibrium.

CARL JUNG,_ Man and His Symbols_

_ooooo_

They may just be stuff from your head, but they're plenty real enough while you're in one.

CARL KOLCHAK _ Hollywood Dispatch_

* * *

You wouldn't know it, but I'm actually pretty normal. Well, I started _out_ pretty normal. Not all my nights look like that, but a whole lot of them do. Or variations on the theme. Unfortunately for the quality of my sleep, I've seen a lot in my life.

The docs call them 'night terrors' but I don't. Words are powerful things – I know; I work with them. And if you give something a name with the word 'terror' in it, I figure you're just asking for trouble. I use the name 'nightmares' and who cares if I'm technically correct?

I have a few dozen 'regulars', I've got them named. In between those, I dream normal. I know what normal looks like, too; I used to dream like normal people all the time. It's been a while since I lost my innocence and discovered what everybody else still does not know: that there _are_ monsters. It was in the hot dry of Las Vegas. One Janos Skorzeny ripped that innocence from me and opened my eyes to the stuff around us all, that which others cannot or _will _not see. My subconscious is still trying to come to terms with it all. And like I say, there has been a lot.

The reason so many still don't know is not for my lack of trying. My profession is reporter – an ideal position to tell what I've learned and explain it to the masses. But actually getting those stories past my editor and into print has been spotty at best. Suppression itself at worst.

Our office at the Hollywood Dispatch was to be painted. Our walls went from old dusty grey to new dingy grey. The choreography of the well-oiled machine that is the Disgrace (cough!) was disrupted for four days with ladders and workmen. After the ordeal, desks came out from under sheets of plastic, and we got back into our routine, albeit with a strong whiff of new paint in the air. The morning after The Bite Nightmare, I sat in my cubicle impatiently. The news beat was uncharacteristically slow. Action in newsroom had been as good as watching paint dry...

Anthony Vincenzo, my boss and keeper came out of his office studying a sheaf of papers. He held one sheet over his head without even looking up. "Kolchak! Murder for you."

Finally something interesting! "I'm on it!" I pulled my feet off my desk and happily collected my coat, camera and recorder.

Ron Updyke shook his head. "Disgusting way to make a living." he mentioned loudly to Emily Cowles. "One mention of a killing and he starts to salivate like Pavlov's dog."

I placed my hat on my head in a haughty angle (giving UpTight the evil eye), caught Tony's paper, and headed out.

Ron smiled. "Woof" he said as I passed his desk.

"Grrrrrr." I countered, and was gone.

* * *

ooooooo

* * *

The Herrmann, Miller, and Nash law office was in a swanky part of town. I opened the wide mahogany and glass doors to a plush reception area, now deserted. I caught a whiff of fresh paint here, too. Was the whole blasted city getting new paint? The action was down the hallway. As I made my way past officers of the LAPD and the general hubbub of a murder scene, I heard a conversation from else where in the office, far away but loud enough to catch.

"I don't care about what we have invested! It leaves, _now_!"

"You're being unreasonable, you're only upset because of Pat's murder, and I can understand that–-"

"I'm the only one here _being_ sensible. And luckily, I'm the one who makes the decisions. I won't have it here another hour!"

The walls were beige and the trim rich dark brown. I padded down the hall on the thickest of carpets. Classy wall sconces lit the way. Luxury oozed all around me. Personally, the creature comforts always made me uncomfortable. The lawyers had put in the best of the best for their clients to walk on – gives a feeling of competence in the air. But now that plush carpeting was doing a real competent job of soaking up a very large blood stain.

The murder victim outline was spread out about half way down the wide hall under an odd painting. I waited for the cops to get out of my way and studied it with amusement. Browns. Simple. Obviously you don't need artistic talent to sell paintings to office buildings these days. I filed _that_ nugget away in case I ever needed a new job, Vincenzo _could_ fire me...

Once the cops were done, and made way for the hard-working people, I pushed my hat to the back of my head and started photographing the scene. An officer stood next to me doing paperwork. "Name of victim?" I asked, activating my recorder.

"Anderson, Pat. male, 32."

"He worked here?"

"Fresh out of law school."

"Shame." I continued shooting. "Time of death?"

"They figure around 11:30 P.M."

"How did the he die, chief?"

He afforded me a quick glance. "Gunshots, multiple."

Multiple gunshots? I looked around in surprise. In a hallway like this? "Must have been a crack shot to not hit any of the walls. Or was it close-range?"

The cop scowled and did not answer.

"What's 'multiple' mean?" I asked, shifting the shoulder strap on my recorder. "Three, four?" He glanced up at me but returned to his paper work with out comment. "Come on, chief, help out a poor reporter who's just trying to do his job."

He pressed lips together. "Not three or four."

"...but rather..." I coaxed.

He glanced at digital recorder I held in front of him and looked at me significantly. I sighed and shut off the recorder. He returned to his clipboard. "I'd say about 30."

30 gunshots?! I whirled around to look at the hallway. No stray bullet holes? "What–-" I started.

"You know as much as I do, now." He clicked his pen on the clipboard with finality and clipped it into his pocket. "Now leave me _alone_." He walked off.


	3. Part 3 The Burn

**Author's note: Jimmy Patterson belongs to David Ulanski from his excellent story _It Came from Monkey Skull Creek _put out by Moonstone (Kolchak:The Night Stalker Chronicles ISBN 1-933076_-04-6), _Ryder Bond and Phillip Roark belong to Bill S. Ballinger from his episode_ Firefall, _Dean and the Fire belong to Rachel Caine from her very excellent story _Stealing Fire_ put out by Moonstone (Kolchak:The Night Stalker Casebook ISBN 1-933076-17-8). A tip of the birdfeeder hat to all three!**

**Connecting the Dots**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part three**

* * *

Only do not forget, if I wake up crying  
it's only because in my dream I'm a lost child  
hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands.

PABLO NERUDA _Sonnet XXI_

* * *

That night I got home to my castle a little late, after having visited my favorite Gentlemen's Club for some libation. I had a nice little buzz going. I unloaded my camera and digital recorder onto the bedside table and tossed my hat onto the lamp before taking the four steps over to my "kitchen" for the rest of the take-out from yesterday. I grabbed a fork from the pile of dirty dishes and dug into my cold Mu-Shu, carrying my fine cuisine over to my dead green corduroy couch. With the click of a few buttons, Miles started playing, just for me.

I smiled, put my feet up on the milk crate coffee table, and chewed. The Mu-Shu was good. The Jazz was excellent.

I killed the light to see the music better. Life doesn't get better than this. The music danced in the air around me. It by-passed my eardrums, soaking right though my thick skin and directly into my tired muscles. Jazz does this. I let my carefully maintained guard down and opened myself up to what the music let me feel. Made me feel. Mmmm. The music made me feel more alive. Once the food was gone, I continued to lay and listen to the end of the album.

Belly full and brain happy, I tossed the fork back on the pile at the sink. After stripping to my boxers and flipping on the bedside lamp, I fell into bed.

I lay in the quiet, feeling content. Or maybe it was the scotch. I was vaguely amused to feel the elevator start to descend.

_The elevator appeared around me, gliding smoothly down. I glanced down and was surprised to see my white suit was black, black as pitch. Oh, of course! I was going to the funeral. Strange to have the sides of the elevator decorated with faint dots. The doors opened with a pleasant ding and I entered the room where all the mourners had gathered. Full house._

_All were seated and ready to start, so I slipped into an empty chair in the back row. No problem that I had arrived so late– I knew I was here to observe, not mourn. I sat down behind two older women, one whispering to the other, "How did he die?" "Rakshasa" came the answer, "but nobody trusted him." _

_Odd, I thought, to hold a funeral down this many floors underground._

_I glanced to the front of the room– you couldn't really call it a chapel– to see whose funeral I was there to see._

_To my shock, my Old Man lay in the casket. What the Hell was this? Why would I be coming to _his_ funeral?! True to form, he lay there in shades of black and white and grey. And two-dimensional, too. I scowled, but I stayed in place. Making a scene wasn't an option. Keep it all inside. Plenty of practice, there._

_I saw Ma sitting in the front row, crying. I should go comfort her, I knew. I wanted to. But I sat. Anger warred with regret inside me, plus crushing guilt and a thin yearning ache chimed in its voice too. I showed nothing._

_I hadn't cried when it happened – all those years ago. Too shocked I guess. And afterward? Afterward I found it easier to avoid. He was gone and it was easier just to pretend everything was alright. But I didn't shed a tear, and I never trusted a soul from that day forwards._

_Miles started to play quietly as the service began. I fidgeted in my seat, uncomfortable. A pastor approached the lectern and addressed the gathering. " He was a **good** man." he intoned. The faithful answered with a droning murmur, "...a good man, yes. He was a good man." they nodded in staged agreement, "... a very good man." The bastard smiled in his coffin._

"_No!" All heads turned to a 10 year old boy who sprang up and shook his fist at the pastor. It was Jimmy Patterson, my buddy from all those summers ago. "No!" he yelled again, "He wasn't good! It was him did it! Nobody saw but Carl – an' he never told. But he's why the baby was dead!" Shocked gasps rose up from all over the room at this breach of protocol. I was shocked too. I never mentioned it to anyone; not even Jimmy. My face burned with shame for him, but I said nothing, knowing it was only my place to watch this train wreck, not participate. Jimmy fled from the room amid tisks and clucks from all assembled._

_Every one in the room watched him run out, everyone that is except a small black man with wild hair, who was watching me instead. I had the impression he was sizing me up._

_Miles started playing again and I made to remove my hat in respect. The hat I brought off my head was a black top hat and with horror I realized I had been given the job of Undertaker. I didn't want the job – 'Screw this!' I wanted to yell. But the crowd was filing out now, patting my arm with confidence in me, fake smiles on all their faces. They passed me, and on out into their own lives, leaving me with the burden again. I didn't say a word, but my anger burned._

_Jimmy stood in front of me suddenly, holding his young head high in the pride of someone who has spoken a truth – an unpopular truth – but spoken it true and could lay claim to **integrity**. The greatest prize of all. I smiled at him._

"_They shouldn't have given you the job." he spoke to me with seriousness beyond his years. "It isn't right. It isn't fair!" I said nothing, but I agreed. "They should have given you this." he declared and showed me my old worn baseball mitt I had treasured years ago. When I saw it, I felt an old emptiness shock through me. I felt little. I felt abandoned. I felt very small in a very large world. I felt the crushing weight of needing to make it through life on my own wits and on them alone; fight for myself because wasn't no-body going to fight for me...When he placed the glove in my hands, I broke down, crying like a baby... _

I opened my eyes into the dim light of my lamp. Whack-job dream! I rolled over with a groan and was suddenly wide awake; my face and pillow were wet with tears and my eyes were slightly burning. What the hell was this? My dream was crystal clear in my head and didn't run away after a few seconds like they do. Except for the nightmares–– those seem to hang around longer.

I turned the pillow over with a punch and scowled, wiping my face dry again. Stupid dream.

* * *

I lay stewing for a bit, but before an hour had passed, I succumb once again to the fog of sleep.

_I found myself walking down the wide ramp of the baseball stadium. Built to handle crowds of thousands, it looked massive and lonely holding just me. It was nighttime. Cold concrete structure, firm, solid, empty. Silent._

_I made my way to home plate, where my yellow mustang waited like a good stead. I swung my feet in without opening the door, and slid into the seat like a hand into a glove. I smiled widely. I belonged here. This was right. I pulled out of the park, and onto the dark streets. _

_Dots hung in the air on either side of me, but I ignored them, I had my car and the open road– and what more does a man really need?_

_A gold sedan was parked off to the side, heading back the other way. I saw Ryder Bond getting into the passenger side of it. He closed the door, and the sedan drove off._

_Whoa! I laid rubber doing a U-turn to follow. I had to warn the driver. I was sure Bond was a danger, although I couldn't put my finger on precisely why. The car was accelerating fast, but my little mustang had more pep than wild horses. I pulled up next to him and shouted and waved for him to stop, but Phillip Roark at the wheel didn't even look my way. They never **listen**! I yelled another warning, but he drove on._

_I had to get his attention. His life was at stake, I was sure of it. I shot ahead a good distance and slid my car skillfully side-ways to block his path. The sedan squealed to a stop, and I scrambled out over the door, and ran back to the sedan. But before I got to him, the inside of the car burst into flame. I skidded to a stop at the door and starred in horror through the closed window at the driver. He was looking at me, and clearly burning. His mouth was open in a silent scream, but his skin turned charred and black in front of my eyes. With a cry I sprang for the door handle, but it was locked. It was hot as well, I snatched my hand back, burned. The skin across his face burned clean away and the bone caught fire in turn. I stood useless, realizing I was watching a man burn to death in front of my eyes. Helpless to intervene. Hair, flesh, bone, dust, I watched the slow cremation of a human being. That unique stench filled the air; once you've smelled burning flesh, it's not something you forget._

_My gut contracted with guilt. I hadn't been able to save him... On the sidewalk far behind the car, a thin black man with wild hair stood leaning on a walking staff. His eyes never left me._

_The back door of the sedan suddenly opened from the inside. From out of the smoke, a new form appeared. Female. Flame red hair, alabaster skin, so blindingly perfect it took me a few seconds to realize she was completely naked. And her eyes..._

_It was daytime. Dean called from behind me, out of sight over the lip of the crater. "Carl, is she here?" The sight of her obliterated any concept of words in my head, and I made no answer, but just starred open-mouthed at her eyes; flame. Flame where iris and pupil belonged. I couldn't even breathe looking at her. The street and sedan were gone. We stood in the hot sands of the desert. I was spell-bound._

_She approached me gracefully and took my hand, inhaling a deep sensuous breath where the dried blood still showed. "__**Run**__, Carl!" Dean yelled. "She thinks you're me!" I couldn't have run if I wanted to, and I didn't want to. I _wanted_ to be consumed by this goddess. What a way to go..._

_Dean hit me with a body check that sent me sent me flying..._

* * *

When I woke that morning, my right hand tingled like I'd slept across it. I shook it to get blood back in, and rolled over to switch off my lamp. I lay back for two more lavish minutes in bed, enjoying the rose light of the sunrise. The dream was still there in my head. Hey, _both_ dreams were. Complete. How often does that happen?

When I finally pulled my unwilling body out into the day, I stretched out the aches and the kinks. Getting older is not for the faint-of-heart. But I suppose it's better than the alternative.

I splashed water in my face and ran water to shave. When I grabbed my shaving brush was when I felt it: my right palm wasn't just tingling. It was tender. I examined both palms closely. The left palm looked and felt fine. The right one almost looked like it had been slightly burned by a metal handle.


	4. Part 4 The Bullets

**Connecting the Dots**

**Part Four**

* * *

What we experience in dreams – assuming that we experience it often – belongs in the end just as much to the over-all economy of our soul as anything experienced "actually": we are richer or poorer on account of it.

FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, _Beyond Good and Evil_

* * *

That morning I was intrigued enough with my palm to make a call at the Sleep Clinic. Here they watched people sleep for a living. Consider _that_ the next time you're bored with your job. But they were the closest thing I could think of to an expert on the ways of dreamland.

"Just how real is a dream?" I asked the young sleep tech.

"Oh, very real." he answered. "Dreams are like a storm in the brain, especially during REM. Lots of scientific study on dream sleep. We are getting closer to understanding the 'how' of dreams, but I'm afraid we still are a long way from understanding the 'why'."

"No, my question isn't so much how real are they to science, but how real are they for the individual. Do they really... happen... to the person dreaming?"

"The dreamer is almost always convinced the experience is real during the dream, but that sensation is fleeting, together with most of the content of the dream, when they wake up."

"Always fleeting?"

"Well, it varies with the individual of course. I understand creative people remember more, or possibly just remember more vividly."

"Could this believing it's real... affect the _body_ at all?"

"Easily." he nodded enthusiastically. "Heart rate, breathing rate all go up during an exciting dream. We see it all the time here. We even have voluntary muscle twitching during action dreams." he grinned.

"Yes, but what about beyond that?" I pressed.

He frowned. "I don't understand the question."

"Could a person be _injured_ in a dream?"

"Injured, like on their body?"

"Yeah."

"You mean if they kick the footboard, right?"

"No. I mean like if someone in their dream kicked _them_." He starred at me with an odd expression. "Hypothetically." I said.

"Hypothetically? No." But his expression told me he had more.

"I'll tell you why I ask," I showed him my right palm. "Last night, I burned my hand in a dream." His eyes went wide, and he took my hand to examine it closely. "You've seen this before." I stated.

"No, not a burn."

"But something else."

His glance was evasive. "Well, we had a few unusual cases about a couple months ago. Bruises mostly."

"Incurred during a dream?"

"No, of _course_ not. But the subjects claimed that's what they had dreamed about. Obviously what happened was the subjects came in to the clinic already injured – not remembering having gotten injured – and their subconscious dealt with it that night by having them _dream_ about getting the injury."

"And now me too."

He shook his head. "Man, that's odd."

* * *

ooooooo

* * *

"Mr. Kolchak, a pleasure to meet you!" Mr. Herrmann extended his hand with a wide smile, we shook. "How can Herrmann, Miller, and Nash help you with your legal troubles?"

"My legal troubles are some thing you don't want to see, Mr. Herrmann. I'm here on a professional basis. I'm a reporter with the Hollywood Dispatch," I said showing him my press pass, "I'd like to talk with you about Pat Anderson, sir."

His face fell. "Yes, I understand. Are you the obituary reporter?"

"Heh heh." I said, shifting in my seat. I decided to not waste time, and start disliking him right from the beginning. "No, I'm a _crime_ reporter."

"Oh. Well, the police have it all sewn up, I think. Terrible tragedy. Pat was a promising young man. So much potential. And a war vet; decorated," His delivery was slick, but I could read that he was uneasy. You don't spend 25 years interviewing people and not get a feel for reading what they are really feeling. Or trying not to let show...

"As I understand it, the police don't have it 'all sewn up', Mr. Herrmann. A war vet, you say?"

"Oh, yes. Afghanistan. He entered Law School on the VA bill."

"Had he been here long?" I jotted down notes as we talked.

"Two months."

"Was he alone here that night?"

He smiled tolerantly. "We have gone over all of that with the police."

"Any theory as to a motive?" I pressed.

He frowned now. "No one disliked him."

"Somebody disliked him enough to put a _bullet_ in him," I glanced up from my notebook and watched him closely, "More than one, I hear."

Our eyes locked. He became immediately defensive. "He had no enemies here!"

"Any outside of work?"

"Two months is hardly time to get to know of someone's life outside of work!"

"Had he mentioned any old girlfriends?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to bring this to an end, Mr. Kolchak." he said, standing. "I have _clients_ waiting."

My eyebrows raised. "Your reception area was empty except for _me_ three minutes ago."

"They're waiting in the over-flow waiting room." he said stone-faced.

"Ah-huh. Don't you think it's odd that an assailant could put that much lead into a body and not once _miss_ and hit a wall?"

"A skillful assailant, perhaps."

"Perhaps. That morning when I got here, I overheard an argument in your hallway about something needing to leave, Mr. Herrmann. What was that about?"

"**You** need to leave. Now."

I was unceremoniously shown the door.

I walked past the spot on carpet on way out. The stained carpet had been removed and replaced with new lush pile, the wall cleaned up (or repainted), even the ugly brown painting hanging over it had been replaced. I checked carefully up and down the hallway again for stray bullet holes. Nada.

* * *

ooooooo

* * *

I entered the morgue on a call from my stringer. It's a good day when you get a call from your local morgue to come on in for a visit. Andre looked up from his two-bit novel when I walked in. He grinned like a cheshire cat. "Have I got something for you_." _

"Uh-huh,' I said skeptically. "How much?"

"Don't frown, you're going to love this."

"Answer my question."

"This is good enough for _two_ twenty spots, but I'll let it go for one – just to see yer face when I tell ya." He ran his hand over the back of his dark curls.

"So tell me already." I pulled out my wallet.

"That Anderson killing, at the Law office?"

"Yeah," I said, handing over twenty hard-earned bucks.

"The ballistics are interesting."

"I heard he got shot 30 times. If that's what you're selling, I'm not buying."

"Thirty-six times. Thirty-six entries. No exits."

"No exits?"

"And..." he paused for dramatic effect. "Get this: no bullets."

"Come again?" I asked.

"Stiff had no lead in him."

"What do you mean no _lead_?" I asked incredulously. He just nodded, obviously enjoying himself. "Bullet holes with no _bullets_?"

"Thirty-six of 'em."

"That makes no sense at all!" I scoffed. "Are they sure?"

"Sure as shootin', pardon the expression. They had him x-rayed. Full-body–– right during the autopsy –– lookin' for 'em. He's clean."

"Well..." I pondered, "... if there were no bullets, they weren't _bullet-holes_, hey, Einstein?"

He shrugged smugly. "Our experts say they were. And I do mean _experts_. They called people from far away in for this guy. There's been a lot of back-room chatter on this one."

I rubbed my chin, thinking. "Does my twenty get me a look?"

We walked over to the drawers, and he heaved one open. I lifted the sheet on the cadaver. They sure looked like bullet wounds to _me_, and they were amazingly evenly spaced in a number of lines across the chest.

"The top doc thinks it was probably a _machine_ gun."

I frowned in puzzlement.


	5. Part 5 The Knockout

**Connecting the Dots**

**Part Five**

* * *

Dreams say what they mean, but they don't say it in daytime language.

GAIL GODWIN

* * *

_I picked up my smoker and turned around to face the hive, my nightly activity._

_My bees filled the air around me, even before I lifted the top. I moved slowly and deliberately so as not to rile them up. Bees can be an annoyance at best, but these were mine to tend. They flew everywhere in a dizzyingly complex pattern. Minding their own business; good. Bees can be aggressive at worst– even dangerous. But I had my long experience with them; I knew them like they were a part of me. They _were_ a part of me._

_What's more, I had my smoker; billows of calming smoke for when I lifted the top. And I had my beekeeper's suit and hat to protect me. I couldn't be stung through the thick, shielding material of the suit. Nor could they get past the netting hanging from the wide brimmed hat to land on my face or neck. A mere annoyance my bees were._

_In my peripheral vision, something joined the bees in the air. Dots. Lines of dots in strings. Odd. Faded, they were, subtle._

_I lifted the top smoothly. More activity among the bees. As I looked down into the hive through the smoke, I remembered with a start that a few of the bees in my hive were killer bees; transplanted in from Africa by way of Brazil and larger and more aggressive than a normal person's bees. I looked down into the open hive. How many of them were the killers? I tried to remember, but my memory was murky._

_What was _clear_ was my vision. It was surprising how clear the bees were. They buzzed around me in perfect focus. That was odd. Why could I see them better now than all the other times? I gasped when I realized than netting was _**not** _between us. My safety hood was not there this time. I was really there in the middle of my bees, and they buzzed dangerously close to my face. I glanced at my arms, even though I already knew what I would see. My beekeeper's suit was gone too. I was facing my hive in nothing but seersucker._

_As the danger became clear, my heart started pounding. As calmly as I could, I backed away from the hive._

–––– _And backed right into the courtroom. The meadow dissolved. I turned to face the judge: old man Wiedermeyer, my first editor in New York. I knew what was coming, he looked pissed. He often looked pissed... I waited for him to start his lecture, adjusting the strap of the clunky SLR camera with its large flashbulb hood on my shoulder._

"_How long you been stateside, Kolchak?" he asked me, peering over his glasses._

"_Six months, sir." _

"_Is this sort of reporting what they taught you in the Stars and Stripes?"_

_I had learned a lot in the Stars and Stripes. In country in general I had learned a lot. It was there I had learned not all monsters were non-human. But that's a different nightmare..._

"_The reporting is good, sir. It's just the subject matter you disapprove of. Am I right?"_

"_You young fool! What do you expect me to say?" he shook his head. "You've bitten off more than your young mouth can chew. You want to survive in this Big Apple? You need to get smarter fast. He's the mayor, for Pete's sake!" I ground my molars. "Keep your nose out of stuff that's too hot to handle." _

"_Every bit of it is the truth and it's okay to say it out loud!"_

"_You don't have any concept of the big picture! You act without thinking!"_

_At least I'm acting! I thought, not sitting on my backside letting news get delivered to me in pieces other people decide to give me! "It's like he was flaunting it, Mr. Wiedermeyer, as if he's assuming no one can touch him. Is every newsman in town ignoring this? Are all of you afraid to print the truth?"_

_The courtroom melded at that point into his office at the newsroom. He sat behind that huge imposing desk, studying me. He sighed deeply._

"_Look, son," (He always put my teeth on edge when he called me that.) "I like you. You type good copy and you've shown you can be a bulldog for a story. But you have to learn when to use that bull-headed cussedness and when to leave it lay! You have a job here only as long as I say you do."_

"_It's the truth, I say!"_

"_Just because something is true is NO reason it has to be printed in MY paper!" _

_I smoldered. When my backside was in that suede chair, things would be different. I had it all planned out._

_Suddenly old man Wiedermeyer appeared as Tony Vincenzo. I didn't bat an eye, but continued with my argument undeterred. "The public has a right to know! If it will bring down the fool's political career, maybe he should have thought that out before he got the mistress."_

_Tony stood up and came around the big desk. "You're missing something here, Kolchak. And it could get dangerous." A few stray bees flew between us._

"_For whom? It's not __my_ _fault he has such poor judgment!"_

"_For anybody, you're just the latest in a string."_

_The non sequitur stopped me short. "What?"_

"_The gloves are __**off**__ on this story, and you don't even _know_ it."_

"_I've had my gloves off since I met the bastard! Why should I be intimidated by the likes of him?"_

"_Not that story – **this** story! Are you a professional? Do I need to tell you your job? You need to pull this story together. Connect the dots, before it's too late!"_

"_But you just said..!" I fumbled, trying to make sense of what he was saying, "Mr. Wiedermeyer, do you have more information on the Mayor? Something I've missed?"_

"_This is bigger than the Mayor." Tony walked over to me. "Bigger than the City Council, bigger than the Senate."_

"_Senate?" I asked, confused. "What connection does... the Senate..?"_

"_Kolchak, you won't understand this next part, but believe me: it's for your own good."_

_He swung at me with a fist the size of a ham. Lights flashed in front of my eyes as he made contact with my jaw, spinning me right around like a top, and down._

I woke up instantly, twisted tight in my dingy sheets, disoriented, in spite of the lamp being on. Amazing. The dream was as vivid as you could hope for, and still there, like you could reach out and touch it. I got a taste of blood in my mouth and chuckled to think that I had bit my cheek when I dreamed Tony hit me. Wouldn't he laugh to think he drew blood in a dream!

I untwisted my sorry self from the sheets and lay on my back contemplating the cracks that ran across the ceiling. The dreams I'd had for this past week were like stepping from another room. I'd never seen anything like it. I rolled over sleepily –and yelped in pain. I shot up right, wide awake now, and touched the left side of my face gingerly.

I was out of the bed in a flash, headed for the 40 watt lightbulb over the bathroom sink. My eyes were wide with horror over top of the developing bruise and swelling on my jaw.


	6. Part 6 The Newsroom

**Connecting the Dots**

**Part Six**

* * *

Dreams have led many astray, and those who believed in them have perished.

BEN SIRA, _Sirach 34:7_

* * *

Emily was the first one to see my face as I entered the Dispatch office that morning.

"Carl, dear! Oh my goodness, what happened to you?"

"I'm fine, Emily." I headed to the newsroom refrigerator. On the way I shot a nasty glance Vincenzo's way. He had heard Emily, and was coming out of his Throne Room.

"That's quite a goose egg." Uptight offered, always helpful.

My business seemed to be everybody's business. They all gathered round. "Okay Kolchak, what's the story with your jaw?" Vincenzo asked, deadpan.

"I just made somebody mad." I scowled. "I'm _fine_."

"Well, _that_ I can _not_ imagine..." He answered, in far too good a humor for my tastes. Matt chuckled at that. "Did you at least peg them for assault? Who hit you? When did it happen?"

I was raiding the tiny freezer for a few paltry ice cubes, which I dropped into an empty plastic bagel bag from the wastebasket. I was already peeved from lack of sleep and just annoyed enough by everyone staring at me to let the truth come out. "Alright." I said. "For your information, Mr. VinCENzo, **you** did this!" I laid the ice pack gently on my jaw.

"You hired someone to hit him?" Uptight asked, delighted.

"Come again?" Tony asked.

"In my dream last night, you can at me like Mohammed Ali and laid me flat!"

"Okay, but how did you injure your jaw?"

"I just **told** you! **You** decked me in my dream! When I woke up, I had the goose egg."

The SOB actually chuckled. "You mean to say that I get the blame for something I didn't even get the pleasure of actually **doing**? Raw deal, Carl."

"Tonight, can you dream that I do the other side, please?" Uptight piped up.

"Oh, dear." Emily fretted.

"Don't you see a problem here, Tony? I dreamed it, and here it is. On my face. Big as life!"

"Bigger." said Emily.

"I've been to the Sleep Clinic. They have seen a number of dreamed injuries lately."

Tony frowned. "What's that got to do with your jaw?"

"Dreams are getting dangerous these days. Normal people, with normal dreams are getting injured. And _**I don't have**_ normal dreams. You and I have discussed my nightmares. **You** know what's in my head!"

Tony frowned further, but didn't answer me directly. "Get in here." He jabbed a thumb to his office.

I grumbled as I pushed past him and flopped down on his couch. He closed the door, watching me closely.

"You **really** think you got injured in a **dream**? You_ know_ that's crazy."

"Fine, Tony, fine." I said from my funk. "Listen, I didn't sleep a wink after 1:12 A.M. so I'm on a short fuse, Okay?"

"Jaw hurt too much to sleep?"

"No! Listen to what I'm saying! Forget the jaw! –– I still haven't forgiven you by the way––that's just one right hook! I'm more worried about the _other_ things in my head! If _you_ can bring up a goose egg on me in a dream that's _real_, what do you think a biker with a sword could do?"

He watched me closely, but said nothing.

"I've seen too much, Tony. It's all dream-fodder, you know that!" I covered my eyes with a hand. "I've learned to cope with it all. I've _had_ to learn. My nightmares are a part of my life now. But ...but they have to stay at that level! My _memories_ I can handle–– but not if they start to draw blood!" I groaned.

"There's stuff in my head I can't face... again. Not for _real_." I sat up on the edge of the couch, the enormity of the problem coming clear to me for the first time. "**Any** of it could come at me. Hell Tony, **ALL** of it could come at me!"

"Carl, get a handle on it! You're working yourself into a panic."

"You don't see any reason to panic, Tony? Would you like to actually _live_ one of your dreams, huh? Would you like to actually _live_ one of MINE?"

Tony said nothing for a while. He did have an idea what I was talking about. One night back a ways we had gotten talking over a few beers after work and the subject of nightmares had come up. Tony loves to play psychoanalyst. Finally he spoke, "Carl, take some time off. Go home. Rest."

"No! I've got to keep working on it–– I've got to find out what's changed this past week and fix it! I'll just go without sleep until I do. I've done it before..."

"What about a tranquilizer? A sedative?"

"Drug-induced dreams?!" my voice jumped. "Are you for real?"

"Okay, okay... umm... Look, one time you told me you could sleep in a church. What about that?"

"This isn't a vindictive ghost out there somewhere. It's inside my own head! Can I leave that outside?" I squeezed my temples hard between my hands. We sat in silence.

"Carl..." Vincenzo's face screwed up in an unusual expression that could almost have been called 'concern'. "...what can I do?"

That expression shocked me like a slap upside the head –-uh, the right side, please–– and I could suddenly think more calmly. I stared at him.

"Nothing, Tony, nothing. I'll handle it." I picked up my ice-bag and headed out.

"All by yourself, huh? Why do you have to be such a lone wolf?"

"No time for psychoanalyzing today," I said, "I have work to do."

* * *

ooooooo

* * *

I called the sleep clinic, asking for the sleep tech I had spoken with the other day. "I'm the guy was there yesterday with the singed right hand. Remember me?"

"Sure", he answered, amused. "How's your dreaming?"

"I caught a right hook last night in my dream and my jaw is badly swollen."

Silence on the line.

"Listen, this is serious." I told him. "I've got to hear what you know about the other injuries, the ones at your clinic."

"Are you on the level? Your whole jaw?"

"Enough of it. What about the other injuries?"

"Umm... I'm not sure I should... be discussing this.."

"Look. Friend. You need to talk to me. _My_ dreams get _hash_. I have to investigate this! I _have_ to understand! I need answers before I allow myself to sleep again, so the clock is ticking. How long can I go without sleep?"

"Sleep deprivation is very serious to your health! I'd strongly advise against even trying–"

"My **life** is on the line here!" I growled.

A long silence. "You're serious!"

"I ain't laughing. Do I have to get you an x-ray of my jaw before you answer my questions? How long can I go?"

"It...it depends on the person. You would feel it after one day, be impaired soon after. Maybe you'd make it to four or five days before you started to hallucinate... But I advise against–"

"Hallucinate?" I broke in.

"The brain doesn't handle sleep-debt well. When the need gets high enough, the brain starts to 'dream' while awake. It _takes_ what it needs."

I exhaled loudly. "Four days? Then I guess you'd better start _now_ telling me about the other injuries. When did they first appear?"

Silence again. Then, "About 2 months ago."

"You never saw such injuries before 2 months ago?"

"Never."

"What were the injuries exactly?"

"Well...one lady said she fell off a horse. She was pretty banged up on one side. Bruises. Most of them were just bruises. Six subjects or so had bruises. The big guy sprained his ankle. He said jumping relay hurdles. The one that weirded us out was one guy who came in perfectly fine, and in the course of sleeping in the observation lab, got a long cut on one finger pad. There wasn't anything in with him that he could have gotten it on, and he was monitored the whole night anyway!"

"I want to talk to these people." I said.

"No. Patient confidentiality. There's no _way_ I would give out their names."

Grumble. "Are the injuries still happening?"

"They stopped about 3 weeks after they started. No sign of another since then."

"So they stopped! That's _good_. Do you know why?"

"Not a clue. We've been scratching our heads ever since."

"Wait a minute! _Something_ had to change. Your equipment? Their diet? Phase of the moon? What?"

"We don't know why they _started_, let alone why they stopped. We don't have a clue."

I stewed with frustration."Did every subject get injured?"

"No! Just a few... I'd say 10%. Although, every subject during that time did make mention that their dreams at the clinic were surprisingly easy to remember..."

"Yeah, I'm getting that too. Do you have contact with other sleep clinics?"

"I know where you're going with that. Yes, we asked. No, they haven't had the phenomenon. Although they did have a good laugh at us."

"Has anyone come in to talk to a sleep clinic complaining of these things happening to them at home, outside a clinic?"

"One. _You_."

Full circle. No leads and four or five days before my dreams started whether I let them start or not.


	7. Part 7 The Tiger

**Connecting the Dots**

**Part Seven**

* * *

They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

EDGAR ALLAN POE, "Eleonora"

* * *

I knew myself pretty well by this age, and I knew to stay clear in the light of increasing sleepiness, I had to stay busy. Nothing pulls the mind together like a story – my own personal drug stimulant. Who needs narcotics when you have a victim dead of no bullets? My next move was a call to my stringer at Providence Hospital. I wanted to know if we had any other phantom bullets flying around L.A. these days.

"Vern? Carl Kolchak."

"Hey, Carl."

"Listen, Vern. I'm on a story and I need to ask you a funny question, have you had any non-exit bullet-wound victims come in without any lead to be found?"

"Say what?"

"You know, bullet wounds without bullets. Have you had any?"

He laughed out loud. "No, but I do have a tiger-bite victim without a tiger. You interested?"

* * *

I was. I pushed the hospital room door ajar. A plump middle-aged woman lay in the bed with her leg in a cast from the hip to the toe. She looked up at me, curious.

"Connie Roth?" I asked. "My name is Carl Kolchak, I'd like to discuss with you how you got injured, if that's alright with you."

She folded her arms. "Are you a psychologist?"

"Do I look like one?" I asked, surprised. "No ma'am, I'm a reporter with the Hollywood Dispatch."

She scowled. "You wouldn't believe my story. But I don't care, any more! I saw what I _saw_, even if it _does_ sound unbelievable, and I'm not changing my story for the convenience of any of you!"

"That's a plan I salute and approve of. But I have to warn you it's not a plan that will endear you to your editor." I gave her a winning smile.

She looked at me suspiciously. "Who did you say you were?"

"Carl Kolchak." I smoothly extracted my press pass and showed her.

"Why should I tell you my story?"

"I thought you'd like to have someone actually _listen_ to it." She didn't tell me to leave, so I pulled up a chair.

She studied me. "My story might sound crazy."

"Okay."

"But _I'm_ not. I'm sane."

"Okay."

I fumbled with my digital recorder. "I _will_ listen. Where and when did it happen?"

She eyed me cautiously, but answered. "At my CPA office, 4 weeks ago."

"The doc says it was a tiger-bite," I said, jotting down notes as well.

"It _was_, they can tell from the measurement between punctures. I have physical evidence."

"But?"

"They can't find the cat."

"So they lost the trail, and it's still out there." I offered.

"In an office building in L.A.?" she asked incredulously. I shrugged. "They brought in tracking dogs. The hounds didn't find _any_ scents."

"I've never met a hound with any sense to begin with," I attempted to lighten the mood. She still eyed me skeptically. "Ah, why don't you tell me the story?"

"Alright. I _will_ tell you. I was at my desk on a Thursday morning, doing my work like always when I heard a deep cat noise. I looked up and half my office was gone– and there was a huge metal cage with a tiger in it instead of the other half! I screamed, of course. Then a part of the cage just seemed to melt away. Just into thin air! And the cat came out and attacked. By the time my friend Melissa ran in, it was gone. She called 911. I was in shock."

"The cops didn't believe you, I'm guessing."

"You're guessing right. They think I'm lying. They think I just won't tell them how my leg got so messed up. They realize the leg _is _messed up, but they think I'm lying to cover up what 'really happened.' But this time there was physical evidence. I really saw what I saw." Her face held an odd expression of satisfaction.

"There were other times," I stated.

She looked like she got caught saying something she hadn't planned on. "I...I thought of them as ...hallucinations."

"Talk to me."

"Well...the first one was mild enough, I saw my father walked by my office door, but... but he lives in Minnesota. I ran out into the hallway and called to him... he wasn't there any more. I wrote it off as stress."

"And then?"

"It started happening more often. Random stuff, every day. One was bizarre. I saw a doctor preforming surgery on a man lying on the floor in the hallway..."

"Of your CPA office?!"

"Just for a moment– I couldn't even yell I was so surprised. Then they disappeared."

"Did you start to question your sanity?" I asked, watching her closely.

She held her head high. "Yes."

"That's a good sign," I said.

"But I have gone over and over it all in my head... I have seen things I can't explain, but I still believe I'm sane."

"That's a good sign, too" I said. I recognized this; she was in the process of loosing her innocence just like I did mine in Vegas. She was learning there are _things_ out there, and life isn't so neat and clean as most people believe.

"Why are you even interested in all this?"

"I'm working on a story with details similar to yours. I'd like to figure out why it happened, and try to prevent the same thing happening again to someone else."

"You're taking me serious!" she exclaimed.

"I told you I would."

" 'Happening to some body else' ? Because others have had odd sightings..."

"In your office?"

She nodded. "No one messed up like me and my leg, but odd stuff."

"How long this been going on?"

"It started about 2 months ago. I haven't been back there since injury, I've been in and out of _this_ place now for 4 weeks. They're trying to rebuild my leg and knee joint." She eyed me for a while. "Something real _weird_ is going on..." she bit her bottom lip. "I ... I have a theory."

"I'm interested."

"You'll think it's off-balance."

"Honey, I have seen too much in life to call any theory you may have off balance. I'll listen, and I'll check it out." I put on my most earnest face.

She studied me a while longer then said, "It all started a few days after we got the new remodel at the office. You know the latest 'must have' color-ways for business offices. Beige, warm browns, that kind of thing." She hesitated, biting on her bottom lip again.

"Go on," I encouraged.

"There was a _painting_ that came into the office with the remodel, into the waiting room area... I think... I think that's what caused the problems."

I have to admit, that came out of left field, even for _me_. Haunted office furnishings? "Why do you think that?" I asked.

She groaned. "You think I'm crazy."

"I'm not one to call the kettle black, Ms. Roth. Please tell me why you think the painting caused the problems."

Now the words poured out of her, "To start with, my insides felt slightly odd when I walked past it. It was hard to describe. Kind of like I was the skin of a drum and I was being pulled, or pushed, or something. It was strange, but not anything I really thought too much about... in the beginning.

"The hallucination trouble started within a few days of it being installed, and it seemed to affect people more, the _closer_ their desks were to the thing! Melissa, our receptionist was the first. She didn't say anything about it to me in the beginning, but after I started seeing things, she confessed. After that, the office next door, Andy. He mentioned the hallucinations started for him a day or so after Melissa had her first. Then came my office. I saw things myself for a few days before the tiger hallucination– but... but it wasn't a hallucination! Just look at my leg!"

I watched her with narrow eyes. "Have you seen any more strange things since the attack?"

"No. Not since I've been away from that demon painting."

I pondered. "I want to see this painting for myself."

"Really?"

"Could I stop by your office?"

"It won't work that fast. We had exposure to it for a few days before the hallucinations started."

"I don't want hallucinations, believe me. I just want to see it," I assured her.

"Well, if you're intent on it..." She wrote the address on a paper for me.

The address made me do a double-take. Connie Roth's office address was the same building as my sleep clinic.


	8. Part 8 The Research

**Connecting the Dots**

**Part Eight**

* * *

Between the dreams of night and day there is not so great a difference.

Carl Jung _Psychology of the Unconscious_

* * *

Naturally my next stop was Connie Roth's CPA office. I had to see this painting for myself. I'm not sure what I expected to find, but it certainly wasn't the garish painting I found when I entered the reception. Vaguely floral it was, and personally not something I'd hang in a john let alone my work place reception area.

"May I help you?"

"Melissa Nelson?"

"Yes, do I know you?"

"My name is Carl Kolchak, and I just came from Connie Roth's hospital room. I'm a close family friend, come to check on her recovery." We shook hands. "She told me the story of how she got injured, and about the painting and her theory."

Her eyes went wide. "She _told_ you?" She lowered her voice. "About the _painting_? Why would she do that?"

"_Close_ family friend," I assured her. I gestured to the painting, "I must say, it's not what I expected to see from hearing her talk about it..."

"Oh, **no**! _That_ painting was removed, thank God! This is the replacement. _That_ one left the same day they took Connie to the hospital."

"Why thank God? Did _you_ have bad experience with it too?" Her glance was evasive. "Hallucinations?" Still nothing. "Melissa, I'm a good friend of Connie. You two have known each other for years. If _she_ trusts me with the truth, don't you think you can too?"

"Why are you interested?"

"I'm following a story of people that have been injured under...mysterious circumstances ... I'm trying to understand it to avoid more people being injured. Your being honest with me about your experience would help a great deal. Did you 'see things' too?"

She hesitated. "Eventually everyone in the office... saw things. They... they got more _real_ the longer it hung here." She shuddered. "It was just a bad Mojo thing. Since it's been gone, nobody has hallucinated. And we are all relieved. I need to call Connie and tell her it's gone..."

"While you had it up, did people hallucinate at home too, or just here in the office?"

"Just... just here. I'd never thought about it that way. You think it was a proximity thing?"

"I don't know. I'm trying to figure... What was this thing a painting of?"

"Not _of _anything. Just dots. And squiggly lines."

"Dots?" I took notice. Wait a minute––– the painting I had seen briefly at the law office was hard to describe, but '_Not __**of**__ anything, Just dots. And squiggly lines_' was a description that fit that one, too.

She shuddered. "You know, during the hallucinations, we actually _**saw**_ the dots... like in the painting..."

"_What?!_"

"Just lightly..."

"Faded? In your peripheral vision? Just for 10 seconds or so?" I asked with more intensity than I intended to.

"Why, yes. Yes, exactly! How...?"

My mind was swimming. I had theorized Connie Roth's painting was similar to or possibly the same odd painting I had seen at Pat Anderson's murder scene. But _seeing_ _dots_...! Bullet wounds without bullets, tiger-bite without a tiger– I gently touched my jaw – right hook without a fist? Now, it appeared it also could be the same odd thing happening to _me_ at night. Why would there be a connection?

"You people weren't ..._dreaming_ when this all happened?"

"Day-dreaming?"

"No, more like night-dreaming."

"What?! You think we were asleep in the middle of the day? Walking through the office? What kind of a question is that?"

"Sorry, I'm just trying to figure something out..."

* * *

ooooooo

* * *

That night at the Dispatch office was a long, lonely one. I didn't want to go home to my room where the bed might tempt. And I wasn't taking any chances with letting myself sleep. Here's a deep truth for you; there's no _wanting_ like the wanting you get when you know you can't have something. Caffeine tablets became my constant companion. The next day, I started my education into paintings at one of my favorite sources.

They say that search engines are the way to do research these days, but I have always maintained that talking to _people_ is more pleasurable. I was proven right once again when I was directed to the Humanities Librarian at the LA Public library. She was a perky young thing with large, quick eyes and a tight scoop-necked top, cut just low enough that I found I had to concentrate a bit to stay on the eyes.

"I need to ask someone about a particularly interesting painting I saw," I said, after the niceties were dispensed with.

"Oh, are you an art enthusiast?" she asked approvingly.

"Well, yes..." I responded in a modest, non-committal sort of way. For me to be _enthusiastic_ about art, it was best if it had a crease down the middle, but I didn't feel the need to share that part with her. I gave her my most charming smile. "The art piece I saw wasn't really a painting _per se_, more like dots all put together. I'm here to get some more information about the style and what it's all about."

"Dots. Monet? Pissarro? Like a Seurat?"

"Um, English, please?"

"Do you mean an impressionistic painting? Larger subjects made up of individual small patches of color, often a single brush-stroke." She lead me over to her computer screen and with a few swift clicks, showed me a quite attractive (if somewhat out of focus) colorful painting.

"No, that's not quite right..." I stifled a yawn. Boy, I felt beat.

More clicks. How do these kids do this so fast? I couldn't even follow the dang cursor, it flew so.

"Pointillism?" She brought up another painting, less attractive than the first and not real easy to look at. "You could think of this painting style almost as 'pixelated'. "

"You could, sweetheart, I'm only in this computer age against my will. What's the advantage of painting like that instead of _really_ painting something?"

She blinked. "It's the style the artist chose to use. In art, there are no hard and fast rules, no Painting Police." she said with a smile.

"Huh. Well the painting style I'm looking for was a whole lot less colorful. Like browns and beiges, with maybe a bit of yellow. And they were actual dots. Not so much patches as _round_. Like they had been made with a sucker stick. Dots and squiggly lines." I motioned in the air to show her the shapes I remembered only vaguely.

She frowned, thinking. "It doesn't sound like anything classical. Where did you see it?"

"High priced law office downtown, professional office decor thing. Even though the painting itself looked like it could have been done by an eight-year-old. Maybe it was done with a sucker stick..." I chuckled. Sleepiness had started to make the most simple things funny.

She shook her head. "What was the subject of the painting?"

"It wasn't of anything, just kind of geometric stuff. And squiggly lines leading places..."

"Hmmm. You're not meaning Aboriginal Dream Painting, are you?"

My attention snapped up. "_Dream_ painting?" I asked, wary. "Why 'dream' painting?"

Her mouse flew over the screen once more. My mystery painting, or one a devil of a lot like it, jumped off the screen. Deep browns, dark reds and black, dotted shapes and not a straight line anywhere on the canvas.

"The native peoples in Australia record their dreams in this dotted style. I understand the paintings have deep religious meaning for them. I'm afraid that's all I know about the origin of the paintings; we outside the culture don't understand all of it, of course. These paintings have become quite popular in this country in the high-end Folk Art galleries lately. Kind of a fad, I'm afraid. Even the art world is subject to such things. I know a lot of the old paintings have recently appeared in major galleries over here."

I thanked her and headed into the stacks. Now things started to fall together. There were a good number of over-sized books on Dream Paintings, also called Spirit Paintings, from the Aboriginals. Many of the paintings were more colorful than the painting I had seen at the Law Office. Many of them I found to be interesting, some even... graceful. Each color plate showed the style I was looking for; dots, cross-hatching, curved lines, and often animals and people. But the animals and people were painted in x-ray, like both the inside and the outside of the creature could be viewed at once. They wrote in the books that the assumption was the symbols showed a plurality in all creatures, a spirit (dream) being at one with a real (physical) being in the culture of the clans. Not a lot of detail was available on the _meanings_ of these symbols. Seems the Aboriginals were a closed-mouthed lot when it came to their religion and especially their paintings.

I didn't find any of the paintings in the books to be ominous in any way. No representations of devils, no creature was threatened in any of them. Nothing like that was insinuated in the write-ups about the paintings either. They were, for lack of a better term, _gentle_ paintings. They felt 'wholesome' to me. If these injuries were connected with a Dream Painting... it just didn't figure.

I made my way back to the Sleep Clinic with a few books. My muscles moved like lead, and my brain wasn't doing a lot better. I showed the paintings in the color-plates to my sleep-tech friend, but he had never seen anything like them. I checked the time frames again with him; I was needing to think things out carefully, not being my sharp, insightful self for lack of sleep. The time frames matched up; the subjects had their clear and sometimes painful dreams during the time the painting in question hung at the CPA office. If the sleep clinic was having the phenomenon without having _seen_ the painting, then either the two were not connected OR the painting was affecting the people in their sleep from 3 stories up. I was betting on the later.

I went up those three flights to see Melissa again. "I need to ask you a question I should have remembered to ask yesterday. You'll have to forgive me, I'm... not sleeping well. What did you do with this painting once you had it removed after Connie got hurt? Where is it now?"

"Any place they want it to be, as long as it's not here," she answered. "It wasn't ours, it never was. It came from the office decor service."

"Decor _service_? Like a rent-a-painting? Do those exist?"

"Of course." She rolled over to a low file cabinet and pulled out a file, "Lots of corporate offices use them. That way the offices can do what they do and not need to be concerned with having the reception area looking chic and up to date. It _is_ our face to the public, you know." She looked through some papers. "The company we use is called Explore Decor."

* * *

ooooooo

* * *

I called my friend Mr. Herrmann at Herrmann, Miller, and Nash.

"What possessed you to think I would want to talk to you again?"

"I want to ask: has your office ever used the services of Explore Decor?" I popped a caffeine tab in my mouth and washed it down with a swig of coffee.

Pause. "No, what's that?"

"Kind of a professional office decor rental company here in L.A."

"_Our_ office can afford to _own_ our art." was his curt reply. I was liking this fellow less each time I talked to him.

"I saw a painting on the day of the murder near the body – a dot painting, a dream painting, which was then _gone_ the second time I visited." I said. "Ring any bells?"

"I'll wring your legal **neck** if you try to involve my company in any hint of a scandal!"

"Cute." I conceded. "Mr. Herrmann, I'm just trying to report on a tragic murder and _possibly_ prevent _another_."

The line went dead.

I called the Sleep Clinic again, but my source had dried up. He told me that word had come down from On High that the employees there were, under no circumstances, to talk to _anyone_ about the odd goings-on a few months back.

My head ached and my dry eyes cried for sleep. I looked at the wall clock. I was facing another long night...


	9. Part 9 The Connection

**Connecting the Dots**

**Part Nine**

* * *

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub!

HAMLET Act III, i

* * *

The next morning:

Brrrrrr. Brrrrrr. "Good afternoon, Herrmann, Miller, and Nash Law office." came a pleasant voice.

"Ah, I'd like to speak with Mr. Herrmann, please."

"May I ask what it's regarding?"

"My company did some service for your company and I want to make sure he was satisfied."

"One moment, please, while I transfer you."

Muzak...

Emily held the phone between us; we were shoulder to shoulder and leaning in close, so both could hear from one hand set. I sat at my computer, fingers at the ready.

I hate Muzak.

Our eyes met. Emily was clearly nervous. I gave her a wink.

"This is Herrmann."

"Yes," Emily said, "Mr. Herrmann, I'm calling from Explore Decor."

Silence. "Why are you calling?"

My fingers flew over the keys. I typed, '_I've had a talk with one of my workers_'.

"Ah, I've had a talk with one of my workers..."

"And she told you I was canceling the contract." he finished.

I typed silently. Okay, okay. So maybe there _are_ some advantages this box has over my old manual.

"Yes, that's exactly what she told me," Emily said, "May I ask, what was unsatisfactory with our service?"

"No."

We glanced at each other. I typed.

Emily spoke. "Haven't we been with your office for a number of years? Haven't you been satisfied with us all this time?"

"Yes, but I wish to terminate the contract now. We have nothing more to discuss."

I frowned. I didn't like anybody to being rude to Emily, even if she was lying through her teeth for me at the time. As I typed, small part of my brain playfully toyed with the question of how many lawyers it takes to shingle a roof.

"Please, Mr. Herrmann," Emily read, "You're a businessperson too, same as me. Help me to understand why a valued customer of mine is leaving my business."

Silence.

Finally, "That last one we had, the Australian dot painting, do you know the one I mean?"

"Oh, yes," Emily spoke helpfully.

"I suggest you burn it."

"Oh, my! Why?" Emily asked the question before I'd even typed it.

"Just burn it."

The phone went dead.

"Ha HA!" I cried, and leaped to my feet. "We have the connection!" I pulled Emily up and spun her around the office, ballroom style. "You were wonderful, Emily!"

"Oh!" she said, flustered. "Does this mean you can go home and get some sleep now, Carl?"

"No, not yet." I released her, and held on to a cubicle divider till the room stopped. Spinning probably wasn't the best thing to do with my head right now, anyway. I had been 56 hours without sleep at that point and was feeling pretty punchy.

"Oh, dear." Emily worried, steadying me.

"You know, you're killing yourself."

"No, Ron," I answered. "That– " I hardly recognized my own voice; low and growly – "... that specifically is what I'm trying _not_ to do."

"The human body _needs_ sleep. Deny it sleep long enough, and the body will just take it."

"Well, I'm still in charge at the moment." I made my way back to my cubicle using hand-holds and sat down hard.

Tony came out of his office. He frowned whenever he saw me this week. Actually, he does that a lot when he sees me most weeks. He walked over to me. "Look at yourself, Carl! You look like death on toast."

"Thank you, Julia Child."

"There's _got_ to be another way. How do you expect to figure anything out in this state? I can tell just _looking_ at you that you're not firing on all pistons!"

I yawned. "Not to worry, Boss. I can do better work with _half_ a brain than most ..."

"Years of practice." came from Uptight's cubicle. I tossed a ball of crumbled up paper blindly over the cubicle divider.

"And it looks like you _slept_ in that suit."

"It's not the sleeping in a suit that's hard on it, it's the _not_ sleeping in it. Don't brood over your chicks so, Tony. Good news; I've almost got this thing **licked**."

"What have you got?" He leaned in with interest.

"We now know that Pat Anderson expired from the same effect as Connie Roth got tiger-attacked with. And it seems that tiger-attack was the same effect as Melissa Nelson's hallucinations," I gestured the connections in the air in front of me, "and _those_ hallucinations seem to be the same thing that I have going on with me. _Ipso Facto_ we can link _my_ problems with the dead body. _q.e.d_.!"

"Uh-huh." he said, "And that is good news, _how_?"

I blinked at him. My mind spun its wheels on the question, but no answer came out. I pondered.

"You are _not_ firing on all pistons, Kolchak. Look, I have an idea: what about if you go get some sleep, and you're lucky, and it just happens it's not a nightmare. Hmm?"

"Ah! What about if it just happens it _is_ a nightmare, and I just _happen_ to wake up **dead**. _Hmm_?"

"You're headed there already. I agree with Ron. You're killing yourself inch by inch, and I for one can't bear to watch you do it."

I shot him an impatient glance.

"How are you managing it?"

I smiled broadly. "The old standbys, Tony: caffeine tablets and bull-headed cussedness."


	10. Part 10 The Jany bulkgu

**Connecting the Dots**

** Part Ten**

* * *

In dreams, as in the gospels, one usually possesses the gift of tongues.

_Roberto Bolaño, 2666_

* * *

After 70 hours, I was certainly sleep deprived. I sat at my desk at the Dispatch with my notes in front of me, trying to sort it all out. The rest of them had cleared out. Gone home for dinner, a movie DVD maybe, then ––– bed. I tried not to think of it. My vision was no longer clear, and it seemed every part of me ached.

So beat. I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my face. My eyes burned like a son-of-a-gun. No danger in closing my eyes, I told myself, just to _moisten_ them. ...Oh, that felt good.

_The ground was slippery. Snow. There was snow._

I opened my eyes, rubbing them_. _I tried again to concentrate, but the facts sat in front of me in a jumble. My mind seemed to be thinking through mud, and I was fighting a constant low-grade nausea. I checked my watch; almost time for another caffeine tablet. The face staring back at me in the screen's reflection looked haggard, with bright eyes and dark circles underneath. I closed my eyes again, feeling welcome relief from the burning.

_I was sliding downhill fast, like on a toboggan, only without the toboggan._ _Winter. Chicago then. Or Canada. Hmm, probably Canada. Chicago doesn't have hills like this... I landed with a poof of powdery snow in a drift at the bottom, dots hanging in the air in my peripheral like so many snowflakes..._

_He was waiting for me there. The small black man with wild hair. His simple clothing did not look warm enough in the cold air, but he stood comfortably leaning on a walking staff, seeming to not have noticed the snow. When he spoke, his language was exotic, full of vowels and percussion. But at the same time his strange words registered on my ears, his meaning was heard in my head in a way I could understand. I accepted this method of communication without a thought._

"_You are no smarter than the others. Not trained!"_

_I frowned. "You're not from my head. Who are you?"_

" **Worse**_ than the others in fact! Some of your spirit-paths are monstrous!"_

_I hate it when people don't answer my questions. I studied the Aurora Borealis above me. Red. And yellow. In the distance, I heard a police siren. My attention wandered._

"_Who mentored  you to come to the Jany- bulkgu?"_

"_If you're not telling me who you are, fine. But then leave me alone." What would a police siren be doing out in the mountains?_

_The little man studied me. "I will tell. No other has asked. Many many years ago, when I walked the sands, I was the master who painted the Jany- bulkgu." He waited for me to be impressed, but he was disappointed. "But you are unwise to come. Your spirit-paths are dangerous. Like the soldier's ..." Dismay flickered across his eyes._

_Soldier? That detail clicked in my memory somehow. "What soldier?"_

"_My body dries out with grief. A young man. His spirit-path him led to combat with metal tools. His enemies cast fire from their tools, and he fell. He was ripped from the sand-world itself by his spirit-path." The pain in his face was clear._

_This had a memory somewhere back in my noggin. "How many _times_ did this fire hit him, Pops?"_

"_You have strange questions. More than thirty times."_

_This was a story I was working on. Or had worked on. Or something. "You know about that?" I asked._

"_How could I not know? He was within the influence of the Jany- bulkgu."_

"_And you have you seen others?"_

"_Your clan comes ill-advised to the spirit-world. Their roots are not in the land, they do not attend to their own connections. Their paths tire me to watch. Chaotic! One woman wishing for confirmation even called to her a large cat, which then attacked! Do you not see their foolishness?"_

_I nodded, and I meant it. "I'm no smarter than them, Pops, but I'm lots more trainable. Teach me."_

_He studied me with eyes as old and sad as the hills. "There is a portal open between the sand-world and the spirit-path world; I painted the Jany- bulkgu. My magic is strong." he held his head a tad higher. "Elders brought students to me from many-days away walk to learn better the ways of the spirit-world. I helped many to wisdom. But now your clan comes. No one in your clan understands this can be dangerous without good training, you do not know the path! Your spirit-paths are wild and disjointed as if you had no roots at all into the soil!"_

"_Dreams are their own creature, Pops. We can't control them. Dreams happen." I chuckled. The Aurora pulled at my attention again. The siren was moving this way._

"_How can you know so little about your spirit? _You_ are the author of your spirit-paths."_

"_I'm not the author of mine, they happen to me."_

"_Seven Sisters!" He exclaimed. "No! You are author not victim. Your clan lacks control! You all are like small children." He shook his head in disgust. "Your sleep is like a war, how can you hope to have peace, to find wisdom? How can you even find _rest_ with this sleep?"_

"_Am I asleep right now?" I asked. For some reason I couldn't put my finger on, that sounded vaguely ominous._

"_Do you not know? The spirit world is close to the world of the sands even when not asleep."_

_More sirens joined the first. They seemed to be headed this way. I glanced over toward them. Sirens... I had a pretty good idea what the police were chasing, and they were chasing it in this direction. I needed to move..._

"_What does this portal look like? Where is it now? Close? In Canada?"_

_He rubbed his brow slowly. "You carry the Jany- bulkgu with you all day, and sleep next to it every night." _

"_I do no such thing!" I declared. "I may not be _trained_, but I'm not stupid either! A thing like that would be like radioactivity to have close to me."_

_He looked weary and pointed to my camera that hung from my shoulder. "You keep the Jany- bulkgu in your carry-box. Very foolish."_

_I grabbed for the camera. The screen was blank. In memory? I flipped through the pictures on my card in reverse order, until I came to the photo of Pat Anderson's tape outline on the floor of the law office. Above the outline, in the top corner of the shot, hung my mystery picture, clear as life. I had had it with me the whole time, in pixelated memory, but it was a dot painting, after all. Carrying it pixelated probably only added to the rift between the dream and real worlds. And Pops was right – I had it next to my head on my side table each night. Of course!_

"_The longer you are exposed, the stronger is the connection through the portal. Of course, this small portal is not as strong as the true Jany- bulkgu. For that, one need not even be _asleep_ to touch the spirit-paths."_

"_Pops, tell me: if I remove the image of the portal from my box, will the portal be closed?"_

"_For you. Still the full sized Jany- bulkgu is being mis-used else-where. And some fool has made another small image..."_

"_I'll deal with that later. I need to wake up now."_

"_Then wake!"_

"_I need some help, please. Can you wake me?"_

_He scowled in disgust. "Like a small child! No skills at all..." he spat the words, raised his walking stick and rammed it into ground._

My eyes shot open. I was shivering with cold. My head was on my desk, my camera laying in a heap next to me.

I lunged for the camera. I deleted the picture, after which I reformatted the whole blasted card. Did that make it gone? Wait, these electronic things are shifty. Matt, the young upstart geek on staff, would still be able to pull it out with his computer tricks, I would bet on it. My tired eyes scanned the newsroom for a way to completely destroy the image. I removed the card from the camera and took it to our toaster oven on top of the newsroom fridge. I laid the card across to heating element and turned it on. The element glowed a welcome orange and a satisfying acrid smell soon followed. Warming my hands near it, I counted to 60 for good measure and unplugged the toaster. Would deal with the mess ... in the morning...

I stumbled into Tony's office, collapsed onto his couch, and knew nothing for 18 hours.


	11. Part 11 The Photograph

**Connecting the Dots Part Eleven**

* * *

O bed! O bed! delicious bed!

That heaven upon earth to the weary head.

Thomas Hood, Miss Kilmansegg - Her Dream

* * *

When I woke, it was 4 P.M. and the usually craziness was afoot in the outer office. Emily told me later that Vincenzo had walked into his office at 7:30 that morning, and had, upon finding me sawing logs on his couch, unplugged his land line and backed out quietly, closing the door as he went.

He then held court for the rest of the day from _**my**_ desk.

What are you supposed to do with a boss like that, hmm?

My dreams had slipped away when I woke, just like normal. That was an encouraging sign, but my mind was now set on the real problem; somewhere in L.A. there was a dangerous painting on walkabout. I felt like I had the mother of all jet-lags, and would have been glad to return to the couch, but I had work to do.

I opened the door at Explore Decor. More posh carpeting. A huge black African statue squatted in the corner. Animal skins...

"May I help you?" a young woman seated behind the desk rose and came to me.

"I'd like to rent a painting." My voice was still growly, but my balance was much improved. I no longer staggered.

"We don't rent to individuals, our clients are the corporate world."

"Well, exactly," I said putting on my best CEO persona. "I need a painting for my headquarters!"

"Oh, I see! Welcome to Explore Decor, I'm Jackie Hoyt.", she expended a dainty hand.

I shook it. "Carl Kolmann, How do you do?"

"I'm certainly pleased you thought of us for your decor needs. What sort of company do you run, Mr. Kolmann?"

"Ah, Mens' Wear."

She glanced me over, hat to shoes. The smile never left her face. "Really? That must be fascinating!"

"Yep, I have a line of franchises all over the country, but my headquarters is here in L.A. and we need a facelift for the office. I've heard you have mighty interesting paintings."

"Well, you've certainly come to the right place. What direction were you thinking for your theme?"

"I was thinking of something, say, in the direction of ... Australia. We're coming out with a new line this year of adventure clothing, you know, alligator wrestler and the like..." I blinked my burning eyes.

"Well," she said , taking me over to a bookshelf full of three-ring binders, "Of course we would handle more than just paintings, we offer color-ways specialists, plant suggestions, the whole package for you. Our painting selection is only one small slice. But it _is_ impressive." She opened one binder and proudly flipped through slick pages of photos of different paintings.

"Yes, I see." I took the binder from her and paged through it carefully. The binder was labeled Dream Paintings. There were colorful, graceful paintings like in the library. I leafed through the pages.

"There has been a high call for these dot paintings lately. We have the most recent shipment from Down Under. They are very hot."

I glanced at my right palm. _Honey_, I thought, _you have no idea_. Then suddenly, there it was. The painting I had seen only once at at Herrmann, Miller, and Nash, laying in my hands in an 8x10 glossy. I nearly dropped the binder. "Why, this one here catches my fancy! I'll take it."

"That one?" she asked, taken aback. "Of all the selection, you like _that_ one?"

"Yep, I know what I like and this is just what I want." I said with finality. "I'll take it with me now."

She laughed nervously, "Why, Mr. Kolmann, that's not how it's done! We need to send an expert to your office, discuss hues, layout, botany arrangements, the whole service... ah... _that_ one?"

"Is there a problem? Do you have it or don't you?"

"Of course we offer this painting, it wouldn't be in the catalogue otherwise. But we've had some...complaints about this particular one...mm...once people see it on the wall, they're not as enthusiastic..."

"I'm a decisive man, Ms. Hoyt; a CEO needs to be. It's this one or none. I'll take it with me now."

"What ever you want, of course! But it's still not that simple. It's not in this office. The paintings are all stored at our warehouse. And that's not even near downtown. We could arrange to have it delivered to your headquarters within business 10 days. But we really must do an in-sito color study first..."

A wave of sleep-debt came over me. _Marbles were all over the floor_. I swayed but stayed upright. I eyed the photograph in front of me warily. _No funny business_, I warned it silently.

"Are you alright?" she asked, concerned.

"How have you been sleeping, Ms. Hoyt?" I asked.

"I beg your _pardon_?"

"Sorry, not important," I waved my hand. "May I at least take this photo with me now? To hold up to the wall, and see how it looks?"

"Well," she seemed uncertain. "It's not protocol. That's our only photograph..."

"Perfect." I said. "Here, I'll leave you my contact information and you have your color expert come over as soon as she can." I wrote some nonsense down on a paper.

"Mr. Kolmann, we haven't even discussed our fee––"

"Money is no object, my dear. I'm a decisive man, and I've found what I want. Send your expert right over. I'll return the 8x10 to her then."

"Well, I guess that's alright..."

As soon as I was clear of the building, I whipped out a lighter and, removing it from its plastic cover, held the flame under the cursed image. It burned so pretty, and disappeared into a light ash that scattered on the sidewalk.

_One more down_, I thought, grimly. _One more to go_.


	12. Part 12 The Hunt

**Connecting the Dots**

** Part Twelve**

* * *

"I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I  
should be used to them by now. I'm not. No one  
ever really gets used to nightmares."

MARK Z. DANIELEWSKI, House of Leaves

* * *

It had taken Matt less than 15 minutes to hack into the Explore Decor computer from his desk at the Dispatch, and give me the address of their warehouse. I made a mental note to myself not to ever let him get mad at _me_, for any reason.

The warehouse was a cement block building in an isolated industrial park. Fortunately, they still make windows out of glass. I dropped into the warehouse itself and shown my flashlight around in dismay. It was huge. Hundred of paintings stood in racks on all four walls. How much time did I have to find the Jany- bulkgu painting before the physical presence of the painting started to work its magic on my head?

I started at the beginning, in an area with paintings about the size I remembered, shining my flashlight down between the canvases to check each one. I had been looking for around a quarter hour and had still not found it, when I first heard it.

I whirled around with my flashlight. _A strange plastic-y whirling noise_. I searched for the source, but it seemed to be coming from about ten feet overhead. _I realized there was a large black bowl of some sort hanging over the room. The noise continued like a marble in a plastic tube, whirling. _Curiosity got the best of me and I pulled a ladder over to the edge to look in. I groaned.

_It was a huge roulette wheel, with a white marble spinning around the outside while the slots spun in the opposite direction. The slots were mostly black, but there were many red ones too. I looked for the support wires for the bowl, but of course I found none. Blast it all! My dreaming had begun. The marble jumped and began bouncing. Why hadn't I had a grace period like the others? Unless the week I had spent with the lousy thing next to me in my camera had pre-disposed me to the effect faster... Or my sleep-deprived state – that may do it too. I got a frisson of dread down my spine as I realized what __kind__ of roulette this was. Russian Roulette. How many red slots had there been? What were my chances?_

_The marble finally found home. I stretched to make out the color, ominous dots in my peripheral vision. It slowed down to show the marble riding in a red slot. Damn! I climbed down the ladder. The warehouse faded and the deck of the SS Hanover faded in around me, complete with a full moon overhead. It was The Hunted Nightmare. No! My hand flew protectively to my abdomen._

_This one always got... messy._

_As sleepy as I was, I now had a good dose of adrenaline to keep me sharp. _

_Humans are most often on the safe side of the whole predator/prey thing. The terror of being the one __stalked_ _goes very deep, originating not in the not primate brain in the front of the human skull, not the mammal brain located near the back, but the reptile brain which is located somewhere in the human spinal cord._

_My opponent in this nightmare had animal hearing, animal olfactory sense, animal strength and claws, but also human cunning. I didn't stand a chance. It was cat and mouse, wolf and rabbit. It was just a matter of time. Where could I run on a _boat_?_

_Panic rose up from my gut, probably helped along by my crushing sleep-debt. I spun around, not knowing which direction to flee. I could feel him in every shadow, imagine hearing him in each creak of the old ship. I felt his silent eyes watching my every move. Claustrophobia threatened, in spite of the open deck and sea breezes. I tried to move silently over to a bulkhead, but felt clumsy and loud no matter how carefully I moved. I slid into a shadow and held my breath. My heart beat loud enough to wake the dead._

_I hear the familiar deep growl on the breeze, though I couldn't place the direction it came from. Sweat ran down center of my back. I searched for a weapon, any weapon, around me, but even as I did I had the sinking feeling that this was the way it happened every time. It was like walking in the midst of a thick cloud of Deja Vu; each action I choose to do was immediately recognized as the script. Claustrophobia set in with a vengeance._

_Suppressing panic, I eased out into the walkway, were I could see more open space around me, fewer places to be surprised from. I clung to the shadows. But even I have a breaking point. My body rebelled at the hide-and-be-silent strategy and I took off running, not knowing where to nor why._

_I raced past the bulkhead and out of the corner of my eye I spotted Pops in the shadows. I whirled back to him. "Will it help if you wake me?" I asked frantically._

"_You _are_ awake," he answered sadly, not looking at me._

_I guess I knew that already; my mind was clear and rational (panic notwithstanding), not like normally in dreams where I'm not all there, where most of my brain is alert enough only for drooling._

"_Do you know the _thing_ that's on board this ship? –––do you know..." I cringed, "... what's about to happen?" _

_He closed his eyes and nodded, resigned._

"_Can't you _help_?!" I cried._

"_I can guide only. This self-destruction spirit-path is your writing."_

"_Well, guide away, Pops! What advice do you have for a man caught like a fly in the spiderweb of this portal horror you've made?" I demanded._

_He looked me deep in the eyes. "This is a many-times spirit-path. If you know things go badly when you turn to the right, turn to the left."_

"_I... I can change the outcome of the nightmare?"_

"_You are the author of this. Not victim. This you should already know."_

_I looked down the walkway. I didn't have to suffer the same fate tonight just because I always had? With my rational mind in charge this time, that part would be easy: I knew the last scene at the bow. I would not go to the bow. Just choose not to go near the bow. That decision having been made, the dream _shifted_ slightly. The Deja Vu vanished. I grinned. That, of course, didn't guarantee the dream would have the __opposite__ outcome, only that the outcome was now open-ended._

_Pops looked around at the shift. "Not master-level, but a beginning." he commented. He took on the mantle of teacher smoothly; "Meditation and long practice will give you the skills to flow with your spirit-paths, control them, learn from them, and achieve wisdom."_

_A mournful howl sounded. I jumped –– I'd never heard _that_ before. It was thin and eerie and made my skin crawl. He sounded big. "I need the skills __now__." I pointed out urgently._

_He shook his head. "You should have started the training as a young man. As you are now, you are years away from wisdom." He fixed me with intense eyes. "You must close the Jany- bulkgu."_

"_I should destroy the painting," I ventured, nodding. "Will cutting it work? Burning it?"_

"_Seven Sisters! Why always your first thought is violence? Your clan is hot-headed and rash. The Jany- bulkgu would be very difficult to destroy; my magic is _strong_. You will _**not**_ succeed."_

"_You're not offering me a lot of options here, old man!" I retorted in anger._

"_Change the painting you cannot destroy. Move the lines to divert the energy flow." He showed me an image of the painting in the thin air in front of him, and indicated where the new dots should run. "If the lines were out of sync, the portal would be useless for passage between the sand- and spirit-worlds."_

"_I can paint dots. Alright. But that would be a lot easier if I could SEE it."_

_He conceded the point with a dip of the head. The bulkhead in front of me changed texture (if not color) revealing vertical stripes. I frowned, then realized the stripes were about the height of the paintings I had been rifling through._

_I grabbed at a stripe and felt my hands grasp something 3-D, even though it didn't register on my eyes. I pulled with all my might and fell backward with a painting I had pulled right out of the bulkhead. Yes! It was the wrong painting, but I had a chance now. Salt air blew past me as I pulled out painting after painting using tactile not visual cues to locate the next once all the visible ones were pulled out._

_Pops had vanished._

_The next painting was a dot painting; I nearly yelped. I must be close now! I pulled out three more – all dot paintings, but not the one made by the magical old codger._

_The wolf was coming, I could feel him. The hunt had begun in earnest. I stayed focused on the search for the painting. Running now was out of the question. My only hope was to close the portal._

_I made to pull out the next. This one felt smooth, not rough, under my hand. As I pulled it out, I felt a wave hit me of.. of what? It felt in my gut like standing next to a volley on the kettle drums, but it registered only in my flesh, not in the ears. Like an air pressure wave, but silent. The painting was in my hand. It was the right one. Not canvas at all, it was painted on some form of tanned animal skin. And it didn't even look like real paint when I examined it closely..._

_I heard a deep throated growl from far too close. I whirled. He had found me. _

_He stood frozen in the shadows a few paces off, looking at me with narrow, alert eyes. To see it with my eyes rather than through the fog of sleep was terrifying. He was huge, towering over me on all fours, seven foot at the shoulder, I felt very small and inconsequential next to him. Canine teeth the size of my index finger were bared and fairly shown in the moonlight. The predator's muscles twitched with the thrill of the hunt––the power in that body was staggering. A deep throated growl vibrated the night air. He had me, and he knew it._

_I held up the thin painting in defense. The wolf seemed confused, almost like he could not see me through it. I bought myself a few precious moments to think. What did I have available?_

_Silver? No._

_Bullets? Gun? No._

_Paint to alter the painting? No._

_Brushes? Or sucker-sticks? No._

_Hmm. This still wasn't looking good._

_Good or not, it got worst. The beast finally decided to move around the painting and caught a glimpse of me from the side. I raised my arms in a reflex action when he lunged. He snapped with lightning speed and snagged my arm. Sharp teeth cut my forearm almost to the bone, and he pulled me off my feet. I screamed and pushed the painting (for lack of a better weapon) into his ugly muzzle. Kettle drum-feel hit both of us. He yelped in pain and amazement, released me like a hot potato, then backed away to think. _

_He circled me slowly, looking for an entry._

_I got my feet under me and pressed my back hard against the bulkhead, pulling in the salt air in shallow pants. Cornered. My right hand was useless downstream from the wound. The wound hurt more than it would have in a dream (this being a full-body experience) and I ground my teeth as I held my arm together. But I still had my gut in place, and my cool head. I would fight this. I glanced down at at my one good suit, now splotched with red. Dotted with blood... _Dotted!

**Bingo**_!_

_I threw the painting face-up on the deck between the beast and me and held my bleeding arm over it. Blood dripped enthusiastically from the wound, and I swung my arm to make the arc Pops had shown me would divert the flow. I felt, not heard, hissing as the drops landed, and the kettle drum sensation threatened to knock me over. After this came silent pressure waves that felt more like cymbal crashes– sharp, high frequency waves. The ship, the wolf, the huge roulette wheel above me, and the pressure waves themselves all faltered, faded, and blinked out of existence._

I found myself standing alone in a warehouse strewn with canvases, clutching my bleeding forearm in the dark.

* * *

ooooooo

* * *

I stumbled into my room many hours later.

The ER had given me 38 stitches and a lot of skeptical looks when they asked how I got hurt. I made for the bed like gravity itself was pulling, amused at not being so afraid of having nightmares now. Now my dreams could get back to 'normal'. I smiled ruefully. Everything was relative.

I fell into bed without even removing my blood-stained suit, and sank like lead shot.

_The welcome relief from my burning eyes was replaced with anxiety. High anxiety. My heart beat frantically with anticipation. I stood in Collins' front room, clasping and unclasping the stake behind my back as I heard the heavy metal key enter the old lock. Cool head, Carl. One shot. _

_tick-tick-tick_

_Wait. One. Second._

_A vague memory buzzed around the edge of my frazzled nerves. It seemed to have been important. Even more important than the fact that the door was starting to creak open. A part of my brain yelled for focus for the challenge at hand –– another part yelled for that flitting memory._

_Strain to remember! No! He'll be coming in in seconds! Stay focused... Remember!––I almost had it..._

_Author. Author... not victim. That was it! That was the key. I wasn't exactly clear __why__ that was important right now, but part of me was sure it _was_ important. I grabbed hold of the phrase and made it my own. The scene shifted slightly._

_I felt the change in weight behind my back as the stake in my hand became a cross bow; a cross bow with a strong wooden bolt. My heart continued to beat frantically, my opponent continued to creak open the door, but I smiled a slow, predatory smile. I could see there were going to be some changes around here..._

_ FIN_


End file.
